The Girl With The Scar
by Girl-Who-Ran-With-Wolves
Summary: *AU* My name is Skylar LaPheta. My family doesn't come from Panem, we moved here when floods tore our country apart. This was supposed to be my last Reaping. It ended up being my first Hunger Games. I stand no chance of getting out of here alive. I am District 10's female tribute. I am Skylar LaPheta from Espana. I am the girl with the scar.
1. 1: It Begins

**This is based on the book Hunger Games not the film. It is AU and both the tributes from District 10 survive the initial bloodbath. Skylar is the female tribute from District 10 but is NOT like the person who portrayed the District Ten female in the movie. Skylar LaPheta is portrayed by Shelley Hennig (except Skylar has a deep scar down her right eye).**

**Chapter One**

I shoot up from bed yelling. I can't quite recall the dream but I know it was bad from the way my hands tremble violently and my bottom lip is quivering, although that may be just from the fear of today. I hear our escort, Jasmine Tyrell raping on my bedroom door. "Rise and shine!" her awfully cheery voice chirps from behind the piece of wood. "It's a big, big, big, big day!"

I groan into my pillow and spin my feet out from underneath luxurious silk sheets. It isn't really a big, big, big, big day, it's just the last training session before we're placed in the arena. I doubt anyone sponsored me even though I scored a respectable eight in private sessions because they were all too focused on Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire. District 10 is one of the last districts to go so maybe I didn't hold the audiences attention too much but at least I tried and at least my mentor, a fiery red-head named Liza somehow managed to get the throwing stars for me. It might even give me an advantage, if the other tributes interpret me as badly as I was painted by the Game markers. Apparently I have a 1 in 20 chance of winning. The odds are most definitely _not_ in my favor.

Standing in front of the cheval mirror brings the reality of my situation back to me. I recap my journey to this day. I remember standing in the middle of a bunch of girls I didn't know or care about except one, one girl I'd known my entire life: Annane Summerfield (or Anon for short). My best friend, we used to play near the damn as kids and as we grew older, became more competitive and duel with our wooden swords when we weren't taking care of the animals. Life in District 10 was simple and sometimes depressing but my mother died in childbirth meaning my father only ever had one mouth to feed. We got by just fine, and I never needed to apply for any tesseraes or anything. It was just my luck that on my last reaping, I was chosen. I just turned eighteen a week ago and tried to convince myself that I wouldn't be picked that some other poor soul would be picked and I would just stand by, regretful, maybe even a little guilty but overall glad it wasn't me or Anon. When my name was called, I remember looking at Anon who turned stark white. She mouthed something at me but I didn't catch it because before I could even register what had happened properly, Peacekeepers where prizing me from the grip of a girl who helped me stand when my legs buckled.

Of course, no one stepped up to help Skylar LaPheta. I don't think that many people knew me. Sure, perhaps they had seen the girl with the jagged scar running down her right eye at school but I doubt anyone apart from Anon and my father knew my name. I'm not originally from Panem you see but from a land outside of what was once called North America. My land is called Espańa until a flood submerged it. The survivors where scattered across the globe and myself and my family some how ended up in District 10, it was either that or certain death. The Capitol wasn't exactly pleased to have refugees from a foreign land and my family where adamant to go.

They knew about the Hunger Games but watching it in Espana was strictly forbidden. Our people saw it as a barbaric practice and a way of degrading people.

So whilst all this was swirling around in my head, they called the boys. I can't remember my fellow tribute's name now, even though I've tried to conduct a polite conversation with him on several occasions, he refuses to speak – or train – with me so I've given up. Perhaps it's for the best; I'd feel bad if I had to kill him.

Maybe it was because he had a crippled foot and the sentimental side of my brain felt sympathetic towards him or because I'd seen him limping around school on occasion. I dig my nails into my palm until I feel a sting and blood trickles down my finger. It's probably not the best idea, seeing I'll be in the arena in tomorrow and ten percent of tributes die from infection but I doubt a few cuts will do as much damage as a nicked artery.

My hands tremble uncontrollably and I pinch myself, trying to get control of my body. I can't look weak in front of my fellow tributes, especially the Career pack.

I have no grand delusions of winning but I at least want to make it through the first day even though I know, deep down, I'll probably die in the race to Cornucopia. _Just grab what you can and get the hell out of there,_ I can hear my mentors words screaming over the alarm bells jingling in my head _Put as much distance between yourself and the others as possible. Find shelter or a source of water, the rest will come once you're calm enough._ **Calm?**CALM! How the hell am I supposed to be calm, I'm about to be thrown into an arena with a bunch of well-trained killers so I can fight to the death with them and I'm supposed to be calm?!

"Remember, my darling," I heard my father say in that final goodbye as Peacekeepers dragged him from the room, "Remember whatever happens out there, I love you. I love you so much. My precious Skylar." And then he was gone and I was left to collapse against the closed door and cry. It was probably a crappy idea, considering the cameras waiting for me at the station but I just pushed my head to the sky and didn't dare look at anyone until the doors shut tightly behind us.

"Skylar? Skylar!" I hear Jasmine's irritating voice through the door, "What on Earth are you doing in there? Hurry up, girl!" I want to scream at her, shout obscenities into her ear until she goes insane with the sound of my voice. I grab a vase and throw it against the wall. It smashes and I can hear frantic voices from outside my door.

"I'm fine!" I yell and then forced myself to rein in my temper, "I mean… look, and I'll be out in a second, okay?"

Jasmine's voice is more even when she answers. "It's fine, dear," she lies, "We have an hour." We don't. I know we don't because I can hear my fellow tribute's stylist moaning about me from behind the door. But they can just wait. I'm not ready yet. I don't think I ever will be.

Jasmine isn't that bad. I moan about her a lot but she's only trying to do her best to get sponsors so we can survive in the arena. I remember what she told me on interview night. _Be mysterious, _she said, _you're from a foreign land and you've got that scar to prove you're a fighter and a survivor. Show off but not too much, say something in your language, tell them about some of your customs but don't give too much away. Save that for the arena._

I can understand why she wants me to do this but I don't think mystery will help me much in the arena. True, I do have my scar that I noticed a lot of members in the audience were excited about but when Caesar asked about, I kept my mouth shut as instructed.

In the elevator down we have to stop at all ten floors before we reach ground level, the training center. Me and my partner don't speak and as more and more tributes pile in, we all stand in silence, staring off with vacant stares. _"Atornille el capitolio; el tornillo hambre juegos; tornillo todo!" _I mumble under my breath in my own tongue, some seem a little stunned at my ramblings but others like the intelligent fox-faced girl from District 5 and the Career tribute from District 3 know that I'm not originally from Panem. Of course, they have no idea of knowing I am insulting their brutal government, sadistic games and just about everything in between. They're not that smart.

When the elevator judders to a stop, the Careers pile out first, taking the lead as always. The bolder tributes - myself included – are second to exist. Where as the timid Rue and tributes around the same age like the District 4 male are the last to enter training. The trainer women, who I have already forgotten the name off, gives us another run-down and informs us this is our last chance at a proper practice.

Seeing as I've been putting off training with real weapons all week, and instead focusing on survival skills and the large computer in the middle of the center, I decide it's finally time to grow some courage and pick up a knife. I move to a station that looks fairly dangerous and wait my turn. Ahead of me in the female from District 1 – Glimmer I think they called her yesterday – who is glaring at me as if I kicked her puppy. She then shots me a malicious smile and does a graphic murder gesture of dragging her thumb across her neck. I look past her and shudder, unmoved by her pathetic threats. Cato – the male from District 1 is busy slashing at various dummies, cutting off an arm here, a head there. I make a mental note to stay out of his way during the race to Cornucopia. Tiny Rue is learning how to make a small fire; the fox-headed girl from 5 is glued to the massive super-computer that I struggled with; Katniss is scaling a sturdy rope; Peeta Mellark is busy painting camouflage onto various parts of his body and Thresh from 11 is spearing a dummy. I'm nervous at their skill level, so much better than I am in every way. I'm so nervous; in fact, that I completely forget what I'm doing until my name is girl and the tiny yet powerful girl from 2 shoves me forward. "Hurry up, 10," she smirks, looking at me as if I'm a meal, "Some of us have _real _training to do."

"Bitch." I mutter as I walk towards the impatient trainer. She surveys me was a judgmental eye. "You sure you're up for this?" she sneers, her eyes laughing. "You don't look that competent." _Oh, I'll show you competent. _I think, and toss the knife, It slashes through the head of the first dummy, whipping it clean off and then rebounds, cutting a jagged line off another dummy's chest before coming to land stiffly in the heart of the last.

A hush falls over the center and I can do nothing but stand and gap at my achievement. I spot the Careers, their eyes mentally killing me a thousand times over. My heart rate speeds up but I do nothing but blow them a kiss, infuriating them more. The trainer is at a loss for words.

"I-I'm sorry," she finally stutters, breaking the tension in the room, "I miss judged you." I turn to her with what I hope is a slack face full of boredom, the only thing giving away my real fury being the contempt in my eyes.

"Thanks." I say, ripping the knife from where it embedded itself within the dummy. I shove it back at her with brute force that makes her stagger. I suffocate a smile and move onto some bigger toys.

My spear throwing abilities are okay, accurate but I don't have enough strength behind my throw to make much damage to anything. I give up after three attempts. I skip over the heavy looking weights, knowing my weakness is within my strength and instead trying and focus on climbing. This will be a challenge, especially if there are lots of trees in the arena, which I'm presuming there will be. District 10 needs some trees for the livestock but we are a poorer district, and crops do not grow in abundance near us.

Once I'm suffiently tired from the days training, it's time to head back to our rooms. I mask my fear until I'm alone in my mirror. Then, as I shut the door gently behind me and bolt it, I slide down the wood and hold my head in my hands. I sit there, curled up in a ball for a while until my legs scream out for release and even then I stay where I am.

I begin to cry, weeping like a child, desperate, pathetic sounds. More than once an Avox knocks on my door, checking if I'm alright. I scream at them to go away and they obey me but every time I do this I just want to shout back, 'Don't leave me!'

I strip off my filthy training gear for the final time and leap in a hot shower. Somehow I manage to work the Capitol's strange shower system and allow the almost scalding water cascade across my limps as I squat in the basin, letting the water sting my eyes. Again, this is probably a stupid thing to do but, hey, I'm just the stupid little cry-baby from District 10, right? What did they call me? The girl with the scar. Not very original but my stylist likes it. When I feel I can take no more of the burning water, I skep out, skin a blotchy red from the heat.

I dry off and throw on an old t-shirt and sweats to go to dinner in. Maybe I should make more of an effort; this might be the last dinner I'll ever have. I gorge myself on all of the wonderful delicacies of the Capitol. The best thing I can do before I enter the arena is get as much food and drink in as I can without making myself sick. The adults talk, we tributes did not. It's probably better that way.

After dinner, I make some excuse of needing to go back to the training center. It's open until nine to tributes but mentors don't encourage over exertion. Overall, it's their decision to let me go back. I think they know that I've been restless and miserable all day, throwing things and having breakdowns now and again. I go alone, my partner deciding on getting an early night before the Games. I don't know how he can sleep at a time like this.

The center is deserted. Good. I pick up a pair of boxing gloves from a trolley and take to a bag. I didn't want to display my strength during the training, knowing it was my sole weakness. I plan on trying to do very little hand-to-hand combat in the arena if I can help it. Let the others kill each other first, conserve my energy and then pick the last of the survivors off one by one. That's the plan. But I'm going to need a plan B, too. Everything in the arena is unpredictable. Our lives are in the hands of the Gamemakers who don't truly know any of us and enjoy watching us suffer. It's sick, really. There was this one Gamemaker called Phineas Herbuate who enjoyed forcing tributes to make alliances, get them to trust and even love on another and then finding some way of splitting them apart in some horrible way. He controlled five Hunger Games. I remember them, the ones that took place from when I was six to eleven. They were awful.

"Well, well, well," purred a voice from the shadows, "What do we have here?" I turned abruptly at the voice. I tried to mask my fear with anger but I hated the way my voice shook when I responded.

"Who's there?" I ask, quaking, I force my body to stop shaking before I yell, "Come out you coward!"

"Big words for someone from 10," said the boy revealing himself. A shock of blonde hair emerged first, and then I saw the broad shoulders of a fighter, complete with dark, feral eyes. The boy tribute from District 2. The Career, Cato.

"Shouldn't you be stabbing someone in the back or fucking Clove or something?" I retorted, quite pleased with my reply, though more terrified than ever. I was alone with only this Career, he'd be on me before I could even grab for a knife and then I'd be powerless to do anything to fight him off. My weakness was what he excelled in.

"Naughty talk, I like it," He said and came up behind me. I had turned to continue to punch the bag, not wanting to inflate his ego by giving him the privilege of my attention. As he grabbed my hips and swung around without even think and tried to punch him. He grabbed my wrist before I could even get a hit and twisted it behind my back, causing the gloves to slip free. Cato held me to his body for a moment, and I could do nothing but listen to his heart pounding almost as loudly as my own and feel the soft breaths of the lion-headed boy against my cheek. I was unsure of what to do. If he'd wanted to hurt me, wouldn't he have done it already? Was this just a mind-game?

Slowly, he placed his lips against the sensitive bit of skin between my ear and my jaw. This caused me to stand on my tip-toes and shamefully moan with pleasure. I jolted away and begrudgingly he let my arms slip from his grasp. "See you in the arena." He smirked and walked away as casually as if we were two really good friends who'd known each other since forever. My frantic mind was still trying to process what happened when I caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. Just a second, high above the mat of the training center, leaping as silently as a shadow without ever having to touch the ground. Un-seen until the moment she gave away her location.

My lips move wordlessly for a moment, then they form a name. "Rue."


	2. 2: Sleepless Adventures

**Chapter Two**

I cannot sleep. I have been sat on my bed for three hours now, flicking through the absurd television channels the Capitol has – which now are majorly dominated by footage of the Games. I am listening to the commentators Caesar and another short man dressed in ridiculous clothes talk about me. "Despite the odds, I'd have my eye on this one," Caesar tells the other man whose name is unpronounceable. "I mean an eight in private sessions has got to mean something, hasn't it?"

"Hmm…" the other man replied thoughtfully, "And she's not from Panem, that could work in a favor. I mean, were not sure where she's from but that scar has definitely got a story."

"Yes," Caesar replied as a horrendous picture of me propels across the screen. I look like a convict, all brooding and mysterious. Well, at least I did that right. "But she is from District 10 and they are notorious for not getting very far in these Games." There is a mutter of agreement and I switch it off. I can't believe these people are so casually discussing whether I am going to die or not, or helping prepare me slaughter. Well actually, I sort of can. At least, my brain can but my heart still tells me no one could be this cruel.

I bury my head into the pillow and whimper. _I want to go home; _I think but quickly expel this thought. I bet the girl on fire isn't crying right now or her partner, loverboy. I believe all my fellow tributes have accepted their fate, apart from me. _I hate this. Why me? Why me?_

I've been asking myself this question since day one but the more I let my mind work it over, the more it brings me back to what little friends and family I have and that just makes me sob even more.

I stare at the clock and watch the time pass by. Ten….eleven….midnight… one. I throw myself from the bed in a rage, I am so angry at everything, at the Capitol, at the Gamemakers, at the Peacekeepers, at President Snow but most of all, I'm angry at Cato. I take to the fire escape and climb my way up it, it is only two floors. Once I'm in the fresh air, I'll feel better, I'll feel – even if it's just a delusion – I'll feel free.

But when I reach my usual perch, I spot two figures leaning off the edge. I pause in the doorway, partially veiled by the metal. It's the tributes from District 12, Katniss and Peeta. Instantly, I feel extremely uncomfortable and a little agitated for stealing my spot. This looks intimate and I decide to not disturb them and begin my decent back down the fire 'escape'. What now? The training center is closed. The roof is taken. I don't want to go back to my room. A wicked thought works its way through my mind. _I can go exploring._

I hop in the elevator with nervous excitement. I hit the elevator button to the basement, where they keep all the weapons from the training center. If they found me down here, I'd be punished to the highest extent in the arena, so I am careful. When Peacekeepers pass me by and hurl underneath a stack of grenades. Not the best plan in the world but these won't be active until they're in the arena. In the darkness, my eyes adjust. My fingers make circles over the weapons, touching them, understanding them for the first time since I got here. They just like the violin my grandma used to play. Useless, harmless on their own, nothing but an instrument that has the potential to do beautiful and terrifying things. It is the person that commands a violin on which notes to play and when, so music can be produced. I have to instruct my knife who to cut and when, so I can produce a corpse.

My new thinking is scary but I feel strangely comforted. I should feel repulsed at myself as I feel the long-swords and the daggers but I feel good. I feel powerful. The feeling doesn't last. I hear two pairs of voice talking from down the hall. If I'm caught, life will be hell for me out there and so I duck behind a tarp that covers some spears, hoping this is not what the people are here for.

"Cato, baby," says a voice as I see a figure shove another taller person up against the wall. The voice is soft as honey, sexy and husky. I assume it's a female by the flowing blonde hair that almost trails to her waist. The girl from District 1 – Glimmer.

"What do you want, Glimmer?" he asks as she gets out her knees, licking to his waist line. I freeze. This definitely was _not _what I'd been expecting. At all.

"Come on," the blonde pouted, "Quit pretending! I know you want me." She zipped down his jeans and almost ripped them off; he made to grab them, trying to fend her off. "No!" he yelled as I almost gipped. Some girls really where so naïve, thinking it was cool to give guy's heads. Glimmer was just making herself look like even more of a slut than she was already believed to be.

"Cut it out!" Cato said, pushing at her shoulders, trying to remove the sex-driven girl away from his sensual area. "I don't want to hurt you but you're really starting to piss me off! Why can't you understand? We're not doing this anymore. I don't love you the same way I do her."

"You want me! You'll always want me!" she shrieked. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be seeing this. If they knew I was here…. I don't know what they'd do. Slowly, carefully, I begin to scatter away from the scene, all the time keeping my eyes on the Career tributes. "Forget about Clove and that bitch from 10. Oh," she said, seeing the shock etch into his face, "You think I didn't know about you're stupid little bitch you've been flirting with? Yeah, that midget from 11 really needs to learn to keep her mouth shut-"

That's when he struck her. I almost didn't catch it, he moved that quickly, but I saw her recoil away from him, "That's illegal." She whispered and then louder she screamed, "How dare you?!"

Cato did nothing to acknowledge her. "Don't talk about her like that." I couldn't decide whether he was talking about me or Clove when his eyes lifted to me and caught my gaze. Dark, murky eyes widened in realization then in something between irritation and anger. At that moment, I backpedaled.

"No!" he called out to me, trying to fight off an attack from the furious District 1 tribute. "No!" he yelled again and this time I knew he was speaking to me and not to her. Glimmer must have noticed this too because with a cry that sounded uncomfortably like the snarl of a rabid animal, she began to turn. But I was flying back to the elevator by then and just as Cato reached for the doors they slammed shut.

I sank back against the elevator wall, heart pounding. What did Glimmer mean, forget about me? Forgetting meant there had to be something substantial to remember and in my experience, I thought Cato hated me. And flirting? She had a nerve. I'd made a tremendous error in staying that long, now I'd be moved up to first position on Glimmer's hit list when it came to the arena. That just made me more scared until I was almost hyperventilating.

Getting back to my room, I collapsed on the bed. My whirled and I glared at the clock as it struck three. I buried my head into the pillow and somewhere within that hour I managed to fall into a half-sleep state.

Waking up, on the other hand, was not fun. I felt drowsy from sleep, had kinks in my back and a killer migraine. The first thing I did when I got out of bed was run to the bathroom and vomit. Today the real Games started. And I couldn't have been more terrified in my life.


	3. 3: Run For Your Life

**Chapter Three**

I'm waiting on the roof of the luxurious hotel for the hovercraft. In just a few hours I'll be in the arena, either dead or being hunted. My fingers judder and I force them into my pockets so the Careers don't see. I can feel several pairs of eyes on me but not glare is more predominant than that of Glimmer and Cato. Glimmer looks as if she's ready to rip my throat out with her teeth. Cato, however, looks agitated, curling his fist into a tight ball and flexing his muscles, allowing them to ripple across his body. I'd have to be blind to not to see how attractive he was but this boy wasn't a simple high school jock; he was a killer, a predator. And I am the prey.

The hovercraft's arrival scatters my thoughts, preventing any logical thought. Suddenly my hearts thundering and I stumble backwards. This is the part I'm dreading. The truth is, I am utterly petrified of needles and they'll need to place a tracker deep into my arm, under layers of flesh to imbed a tiny homing device so they will know where and when to lay their sadistic traps. I wobble on and am placed between Cato and Peeta. Great.

"About what you saw last night," Cato begins to try to talk to me but I give him a swift head shake when a woman in a white lab coat passes by with a hypodermic needle. The place is crawling with Peacekeepers plus I'm sure Peeta's eavesdropping.

"Forget it," I respond coldly, "It doesn't matter anymore." And he knows I'm right. In a few hours we'll be a part of the Hunger Games in an hour and then, nothing from our previous lives will matter. So blow job- completely forgotten.

He doesn't push and I squirm in my seat when the woman waves the needle in front of my face. "This is just your tracker, Skylar," she says in her funny Capitol accent. It makes it sound exotic and strange in her mouth. I'm so used to people not saying my name properly – slurring over the r or missing it off all together – that it is weird to have it said properly. It reminds me of the way my father says it, except he says it in his Espana accent. Rare. Defined. _Home,_ I think and fight back tears, _I need to go home._ I choke back a sound in my throat that rattles through my lungs like a caged animal. It's a pathetic sound that causes both Peeta and Cato to turn. When they realize I'm stuck in a memory, they drop their guard and continue to stare off into the distance, not speaking. I do not wince as I expected to when the needle is plunged into my arm. I only toy with the necklace that hangs around my neck, a token from my District. Technically, it's not from District ten but from Espana. It was my grandmother's and hanging from a simple leather strip is a gem stone known as andalusite that is bordered by gold. It's beautiful and is the only thing that truly survived from my homeland. I'm surprised that they let me wear it. The Capitol would have made something up - like how the leather could be used to strange someone or something – because they don't like anything that could cause disruption. Deep down, they still trembling from the Rebellion and the Hunger Games are the way they put their minds at ease: hey, look at us, we have your kids and there's nothing you can do about it! Before you could even lift a finger, we'd destroy them all in seconds!

But this isn't fair! I'm not from Panem, my family didn't rebel, why am I being punished? Because it's the only way to keep even. If I was excluded because I didn't rise up against the Capitol, the other Districts would rebel and the whole process would begin all other again. This is the way the Capitol keeps its peace by being 'fair'.

When we reach our destination we are all whisked away separately. Guards obscure our views of where we are, so there is no chance of escape and soon we are inside. I am alone now with just four Peacekeepers. They escort me to another elevator and then across a stretch of corridor to an underground room.

My stylists waits for me here, face ashen and eyes downcast. When the door closes she pulls me into an embrace, proving that she truly was a friend. "How are you feeling?" Celeste says, pulling away and looking into my bloodshot eyes.  
"I'm just peachy," I say in a sarcastic tones as I choke back a cry. I pull in a shaky breath and can feel emotion stinging the back of my throat and tears threatening to erupt. "C-celeste. I can't-" the tears are running freely now and she wipes them away, allowing them to drip off her fingers. "I can't do this."  
"We'll have none of that now," she says in a sharp tone, helping me wrestle into my outfit. I'm in a loose black t-shirt, dark skin-tight trousers, leather boots that come to my knees but are incredibly comfortable and a jacket that only just falls to my waist but is large enough to have breathing room when I zip it up. "You're a strong, brave girl. You're a fighter, Skylar, a survivor."

"You don't understand," I rationalize, "_I can't kill anyone."_ She looks up sharply at this and cups my chin.  
"You are a butcher's daughter, are you not?" I nod because I can't seem to form words anymore. "And you have seen your father butcher animals?" another nod. "How different can it be?"  
I look at her uncomprehendingly. "Maybe you don't understand," I say slowly yet understanding and apologetic tone, "Those where animals. _Dead_ animals."  
"Look," she said forcefully, making a line with her finger across the scar as the announcer told us there was thirty seconds left, "They don't know you out there, and you don't know them. If it's about survival, you do whatever you have too to get out alive? You understand me. You do not regret. You do not overthink. You act on impulse and trust your instincts."

I look at her as I'm about to turn into my little plastic tube that will spit me into Hell. "Who are you?" I ask, cocking my head slightly, trying to recall a memory of this woman at previous Games but come up short.

"Not important," she says as the tube begins to close, "Remember, you're stronger than them." Then the tube closes and I want to smack my fists against it so I can be back with the woman that makes me feel safe. She mouths something at me and I scowl at her. Then I get it. _Be the girl with the scar. Make yourself unforgettable._

For a few moments, I'm submerged underground, then I burst forth and am blinded by radiant sunlight that gives no warmth to my soul. When the hazy sunshine clears I can make out the golden horn in the middle of the arena that must be Cornucopia. It glints in the sun but is nothing near beautiful. Around Cornucopia, is all the supplies we're given to survive in this hellhole, decreasing in value the further away from the central base you get. For example, there is a jagged spike of metal near me that is only about the size of my palm. I scan the pile of stuff that is to the limit I'm willing to get to Cornucopia and sure enough, stacked there is a pair of throwing stars and a tsuba sword from the time of the ancient Samaria's, a time before Panem ever existed, a time forgotten. _They're mine. _I think, it's a shame we are forced to stay on our tiny spherical circles because now I'm budding with anticipation. I've been working on my speed, my reflexes and my flexibility all week, my true strength's I've kept from the other tributes. Now it's time to put it to the test. _Ten…_ my heart pounds as the announcer begins the countdown. _Nine…_ I search the tributes, my partner to my left and see Cato followed by the other tributes, muscles flexed to run. I mimic their movements to try and make it look like I know what I'm doing. _Eight…._ I need that sword, it is the only way I can survive in this arena. _Seven…_ the stars are just a precaution; they don't need much strength behind them to do some damage. _Five…_ and if I could get a knife that would be great too but I don't want to overdo it. Getting food is no big deal, I can hunt, gather and know how to set snares. _Four…_ But I do need a pack. I need something that will give me a shelter, so a sleeping bag is a priority. _Three…._ Oh, who am I kidding? I need to grab what I can and get out! _Two… _No, no! I'm not ready.

_One…_

The gong sounds and there's nothing I can do but run like my life depends on it, which, in this case, it really, _really_ does.


	4. 4: Death Toll

**Chapter Four**

I'm off without any time to think. If I'd misjudged my movements by just a millisecond to early, I would have been ripped to ribbons. I am much faster than the other tributes and the first to reach the pile. I swing the Tsuba sword holster over right shoulder and a light pack over the left. I'm just about to make a grab for the Shuriken stars when something glints in the corner of my eye. I just have enough time to jerk my head away as a throwing knife slices my cheek.

I stumble back momentarily dizzy then stare up at my assailant. Glimmer. I knew she would have a vendetta out against me in this arena. In her right hand she clutches two more knives and she snarls at me, chucking a spear. I jolt away and the place I was only moments before is now thickly embedded by the spear. I look up and time seems to slow before my eyes. I watch as the tributes kill one another - some have weapons like Glimmer who throws the knife again forcing me even further away from the pile – but others are just using their fists to beat each other to death and something about this bloody, violent attacks and the fact that their families are being forced to watch this, makes me lose it.

I sprint to the pile, hearing the knives whizzing past me, only missing me because I can outrun them by an inch. My hands fumble over the stars and a loaf of bread and once I've got them, I turn to leave. That's when I see the machete.

By pure luck and instinct, I loose my footing and tumble to the ground as Cato attempts to decapitate me. I bring my foot out, pushing it into his crouch. He whines and brings the machete down again but I roll with a squeak of terror, avoiding it.

I risk tossing a shuriken at him. It lands in his shoulder and the precious time he takes to rip it out gives me enough momentum to get to my feet, badly shaking and cursing, and jog into the forest.

My plan now is to put as much distance between myself and the Careers as possible. I expect to be chased and jumped at but no one comes after me, even so, I don't stop running until I'm letting out hacking coughs. Once I feel like I'm alone or at least away from other tributes, I sink against a tree-trunk. I am only catching my breath, I am not going to have a breakdown like others in previous Games but as I close my eyes to rest, gory images of tributes falling fill my head and make me snap them up again. I'll just have to grow a pair and deal with it. They'll be a lot more killing before the Games are out.

After a moment of recuperation and flinching at every tiny sound, I decide to sort through the pack but never letting of my throwing star or taking off my sword. The pack was dark, which was good because it could be camouflaged easily, but that always came at a price.

Once I've rooted deep inside it, I pull out and examine my supplies. A flashlight, a pack of dried beef, a length of rope, sunglasses – fat lot of good they'll do me, a first aid kit, a compass, a tiny roll of duc-tape, a switchblade, a sleeping bag, a bottle of iodine and a water canteen! And no… it's empty. Typical Gamemarker ploy. How easy it would have been to fill this but the people who designed this pack didn't want to give me too much of an easy ride.

I balance the backpack out so it's not too clunky and heavy and then I add my throwing star into it and my loaf of bread that's splattered with Cato's blood. I press the sleeve of my jacket up to my wounded cheek to try and reduce the bleeding but this only stings it. I let out a little cry of pain, hoping the cameras are on the Careers or Katniss and not me being pathetic.

I finally compose myself and test out my body. My feet hurt but my boots have done their job well and there are no blisters. I move my jaw, which hurts because of my cut so I stop. I wiggle my fingers, followed by my hands, then my arms and then I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck, removing kinks and pressure. I already begin to feel better. I shake my feet, one at a time then my legs, finally, I swivel my hips and turn. I jump into the air a couple of time like a demented bunny, letting my ponytail plop about on my head. I giggle despite my situation. I bet the Gamemarkers are wetting themselves watching me do my funny little dance routine whilst all the others are being dead serious. I wave in the general direction I think the cameras are placed and give a thumb up with a goofy little grin, hoping that the audience will fall in love with me for my courage and witty banter, making the people of the Capitol trip over each other in a rush to sponsor me.

But I can't keep this up forever because then they'll think that I'm not taking it seriously. That this is not about survival but is all just a game to me. So, I plaster my face with what I deduct is determination and keep walking. I will worry about water tomorrow – I have gone a couple of days without water before, I'll live – and will set up some snares near a place I think is suitable to rest. Whether I sleep is another story.

After an hour of walking, I think I've found a perfect perch. It's a cave-type dugout that will provide me with warmth and cover from predators, both human and otherwise. I set up my snares only daring to place four so close to my hideout and then I wait for nightfall. To keep my mind preoccupied, I clean my knife whilst I'm propped in an awkward position against the wall of the dugout. I place my sleeping bag down on a pile of leaves I've collected from outside in an attempt to protect my back from sharp rocks or gnarled branches.

Night falls and the temperature plummets making me squirm inside my flimsy sleeping bag. It's not that warm in here but it'll do. The anthem plays and I know to prop my head out to watch the deaf recap. I allow my ebony hair to rest gently against the forest floor as I watch the Capitol's seal fade across the sky. For a while everything is quiet, making me slightly paranoid but I calm down eventually. If I was at home now, we'd be watching all the deaths replay but those of us in the arena aren't allowed to see who killed who and when. We just get to see who is dead and what district they're from – oh, and the familiar boom of cannon. I listen to the cannon and count the dead. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. _Ten dead, that means there's still fourteen alive. That's a worrying thought. Despite the vastness of the arena, the Gamemarkers will be show to think of some idea to drag us all back together eventually.

I watch the sky to try and deduce who I'm still up against. The district three female is the first, the second is the district four male – I was not expecting that. Usually all the Careers live through day one. Then the district five male, both from six and seven (not surprising, they usually do badly in these games), then the district eight male and district nine's female. I wait for more, to see my partner or tiny Rue, who I thought would probably be killed in the bloodbath but it ends with the district nine female's face before it fades.

I try to work out how's left. So there's Glimmer and her partner and then Cato and Clove. The district three male. Another Career, the district four female, is also still alive. The red-head from District five. The district eight female. Me and my partner, which I am surprisingly pleased about, he seemed like an okay guy. Then there's Rue, the goliath male from district eleven – Thresh, I think is his name – and then Katniss and Peeta. So that makes, one, two….. fourteen of us.

I decide to bed down for the night, snuggled up in my cold sleeping bag. I sleep with my knife – not really the best idea because I could roll over and stab myself with it – for reassurance but no one attacks me. My dreams are filled with running and death and the feral look in Cato's eyes as he tried to bring the machete down on my face.


	5. 5: Raining Blood

It's kind of screwed up, isn't it? How the Capitol pretends to be so much better than us, with their fancy technology, gorgeous food and beautiful houses but in reality, the people of the Seam are far, far more civilised. Back home, people grit their teeth as they watch a loved one die and try to figure out how they're going to live the rest of their life without that person in it. Even turning a blind-eye like that is bad enough. What sickens me is how much the Capitol enjoys it, how they love watching us murder on another, how they adore all the interviews and fame and, the most horribly, how they like seeing people's families grieving.

In District 10, my father has one of two options to choose from. He can either stay at home and watch the Games, where he'll have privacy to allow any emotion to flicker across his face be it anger, denial, joy, happiness, agony or despair or he can watch it on the big screen in the centre of District 10 where he'll have support, a kind word but the news-hounds will be out in force trying to establish a background for the girl with the scar.

As I weakly turned inside the now warm sleeping bag, my bleary eyes tried to adjust to the new morning. For a moment all I'm seeing is flashing, blinding light seeping in through the entrance to my dugout. I force a weary hand out of the sleeping bag and throw the knife to one side but close enough to me so that I'd be able to grab it if I had an unwanted intruder. No one comes though, and I'm given time to come round.

I try not to scream as I apply a plaster from my first aid kit to the throbbing wound on my cheek. I free myself from my sleeping bag and roll it up tightly into a sausage. This comparison reminds me of home and soon I am yearning for the simplicity of life in District 10. Sure, it wasn't the best but it was better than most districts. As a family that owned a butchery, we lived pretty well. Almost always had enough to eat because of my gathering skills – an ability I picked up quickly from years on the Ranch; the spare meat my father had and the other food – like bread, eggs, ect. – He traded it for. I only ever got to work on the Ranch during the school holidays but it was some of the best fun I'd had in an age. It was owned by Bobby Hector, a keen merchant and close friend of my father's. He'd needed workers on the cheap and I'd volunteered to do it for a sack of flour and some oil and, of course, a fresh glass of homemade lemonade his wife made whenever she had some spare fruit. Bobby had to be one of the richest people in the entire District (which wasn't saying a lot) who had strong connections to the mayor and Peacekeepers of District 10. I hadn't seen him at the reaping but I can't help but wonder how he felt when he saw me being dragged off to my death.

Bobby didn't have kids. He'd never wanted to raise a child in such a brutal environment, or so he'd told me. And I can't see why anyone would want to have a child in Panem. It's an act of cruelty.

I decide that it's time I left my dugout and found a source of water because my throat is already beginning to dry out. I'm terrified to even poke my head out in case Cato comes back with that machete. Eventually, gripping my knife tightly in one hand and pulling the backpack with me in the other, I drag myself from my den. I whip around wildly at the noises of snapping twigs but nothing reveals itself to me. It doesn't need to. The threat of it watching me is enough to make me walk a little (okay, a lot) faster.

I walk for what seems like eternities but what is most probably hours. I collapse in a heap after a few hours of walking. I feel lethargic and my throat is so dry I can feel the cracked tissue rubbing together. I'm too afraid to stay on the ground for too long though, terrified that if I sit down, I won't be able to will myself to get back up again. I nosily get to my feet only to be halted.

In the distance I can hear at least six voices and I strain to hear them as they get closer. My first instinct should be to run, and then hide but it's to investigate these people instead. I am about to walk towards the sounds of humanity when something catches my eye. I freeze to see my district partner, the blade of a small knife glinting in the burning sun. My hand reaches behind my back, grabbing for the handle of my ancient blade for reassurance. Instead of attacking me, he presses a finger to his lips and mouths at me to hide. I panic because there are no burrows around me, no dugouts to shelter in. The only way is up.

I haven't climbed a tree in three years. And I'm not good at it either, but what real choice do I have? I see my partner shrink behind a boulder. There must be a hiddy-hole behind it, I don't believe he is dumb enough to just try and hide behind a rock and hope for the best. A couple of times I loose my footing and slip, the bark of my tree rubbing the skin red-raw. By the time the voice reaches us, I'm a good fix feet above the ground and trying not to freak-out. "Did you see the look on her face?" said one voice, revealing itself to be the boy from district 1.

"I know, right?" Glimmer replied, as I realize I'm in deep shit. "She was all like, 'help me!', 'help me!'" It's typical of the Career pack to be relishing a kill. It must have happened recently for it to even be in their minds at all. I count the heads bellow me. Six. No… that's not right. The Career pack are only made up of District's 1,2 and 4 and the boy from district 4 is dead. I look down on the last boy and as he points something out, I realize it's Peeta!

I feel a sense of betrayal even if I'm not even his partner. Anyone who willingly runs with the Career pack is someone to be both hated and feared. And Peeta has betrayed the rest of us tributes by joining them, strengthening their numbers.

"Look at this," he says moving to something I can't see from this height. "It's a plaster. And it's got blood on it."

"Fresh blood." Clove confirms as she leans over the blonde to inspect it. Oh, fuck. My hand goes up to my cheek. Sure enough, the plaster that once covered it has come free and blood gushes in a fast, steady flow from the wound. I clamp my palm over it, in an attempt to quell the bleeding but it's too late. All I can do as I watch the droplets hit the head of the boy from District 1 is hope he mistakes it for rain.

The boy from District 1 (I think someone called him Marvel though I'm not sure), run a hand through his hair and swipes at the droplets that landed on the blonde-brown mess. He brings his hand down and jolts backwards. With a disgusted noise he wipes the blood onto his shirt front and everyone stares up at me.

"Well, well, well," Glimmer snarls, "If it isn't the little kitten from 10." Little kitten? That's a strange analogy but I'm sure the audience will love it and – if by some miracle I win these games – I'll be known not as the 74th Victor of the Hunger Games but as something intolerantly cute as 'the Little Kitten that could', or, alternatively, 'the Little Kitten that couldn't'.

"Hi." I say back a little sheepishly, and, because it's me and I never know when to keep my mouth shut, I taunt, "How's the weather down there?"

"How about you come down and see for yourself?" Cato said, showing me the point of his short sword. I relined the sheath of my tsuba so I didn't look like I was a completely defenless.

"Nah, I'm good." I replied, "How about you come to me?"

"Alright," Cato smirked as he placed his backpack on the ground, "Better run, scar girl."

"Wait," Clove said, in an almost worried tone. "We're wasting time. We need to get that one from 12. She can wait for later."

Glimmer stepped forward, aiming her silver, shining bow up at me. "Oh, I'll do it!" She pushed Cato aside and it was then I saw how strong she really was. A single shove had caused Cato to stagger and almost fall. She fired at me, and I instinctively threw my arms up to defend myself but there was no need because it was clear this girl was incompetent with a bow. The arrow raced high past my head, and seemed to disappear in the canopy of trees.

"Leave her!" Clove snarled, "We have bigger fish to fry." The tiny yet powerful girl from district three strolled away and slowly the other Career's began to peel away, one by one, never taking their eyes off me.

"You're lucky this time, 10," Cato said. His face was pulled into a permanent sneer but this time actual glee seemed to pass his expression. "Next time will be different."

I couldn't supress my smirk. "Counting on it."

Once I was sure the Careers weren't coming back, I began half-heartedly sliding down the base of my tree. I was still a little dazed, I supposed, that my partner had not tried to fight me or even leave me for the Careers. He had instead alerted me of the threat AND given me enough time to hide.

I should be grateful but I am furious. That ass, what is he playing at?! I can't do this; these mind games, not now. He is either my enemy or my ally, he can't be both. And where the hell is he anyway?

I step carefully on my way over to the boulder but all I find is an empty hole in the ground. He must have snuck away when the Careers were preoccupied with me.

I grit my teeth and force myself not to scream in frustration.

Water. I have to find water.

So I keep walking, until I can feel blisters forming on my feet, despite my comfortable boots. Eventually my body gives out from exhaustion. The grass is thicker here, and I'm easily covered by its thin blades. I'm too tired to do anything, can't even make my arm's move to my backpack.

_You have to get up! _My inner voice yells at me with true rage, _You have to survive!_ But I have no motivation to continue.

This is a nice place to die; surrounded by beautiful, almost picturesque, wild flowers, watching the white fluffy clouds float over my head, feeling the thin blades of grasses tickle my back and listening to the beautiful songs of the mockingjays and….and water. No, my ears did not deceive me. I just heard fresh, running water. I force my head to look up over the long grass and sure enough, just hidden from view if I'd been standing, was an inviting stream.

I am suddenly given new momentum and all thoughts of death are expelled in an instance. When I reach the lake, I pull out my water canteen and forget to purify it as I take the first gulp. Then I remember and unscrew the bottle of iodine with shaking fingers. I drink about three of these and fill the fourth tightly. I want to take more but I simply can't fit anything else.

I need a bath though, and with everyone distracted, this seems like the perfect time. I strip off, until I'm in my underwear and dive in. I'm not going anymore nude than that, I feel incredibly self-conscious with all these cameras poking around and it will be more dignified if I have to run away quickly and don't have enough time to grab my clothes.

The water is glorious, heated by the sun's forgiving rays. I bask in the glory and wonder what the people back in district ten are doing right now. Are they spurring me on? Cheering and yelling in my name? Probably not, it's way too early in these games for that. So are they moaning and sighing at my stupidity, innocence and arrogance. Yep. That's more like it.

I lay in the water for a while and the next time I open my eyes, I'm jolted from my lake by a wall of flames.


End file.
